


Reaching My Threshold

by sodasoda



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Breathplay, Cobb-Centric, M/M, elements of BDSM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodasoda/pseuds/sodasoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Cobb falls back into the rhythm of being a father, of being alone- Arthur and Eames return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [saintdogstreet](http://saintdogstreet.livejournal.com/), whom I owe the progression of this story to. This ship would have sunk.

Cobb's life is different now. He no longer mingles with the black market of dream share and isn’t constantly on the run from either: a. the American law or b. other extractors out to take down his business.  
  
His life now has nothing illegal or dangerous within its premises, unless you count that one mishap when he nearly burned the kitchen down and the amount of downloaded Disney movies he has on the laptop to appease Phillipa’s appetite.  
  
(It’s not that he doesn’t want to _purchase_ the movies, but Phillipa is the type to watch something once and never touch it again until she forgets the plot. If he bought everything she fancied, he’d be a lot less rich with a lot more DVDs on his hand than he'd know what to do with.)  
  
He spends his time taking care of his children and works casually at the local library on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, providing free Maths tutoring to kids of all ages.  
  
It’s not a glamorous lifestyle, Cobb knows that. But it’s not the worst lifestyle to have. Hell, Cobb thinks he has the right to say that he’s already experienced the worst lifestyle option of his life, and he’s keen on never reliving it again.  
  
So he leads this normal life that’s satisfying in all aspects of parenthood but- But Cobb can’t help but notice what other people around him have. Something that he himself has lost. And he knows he shouldn’t compare his life to others- he knows that it’s foolish to do so.  
  
But damn if he doesn’t notice all the happy couples, all the happy families playing nice around him. It makes him feel like he’s missing out.  
  
It gives him an unpleasant feeling at the thought, and he feels even worse when he realises that he shouldn’t feel like this because he had spent 50 years with his wife and that-  
  
That should last him a lifetime. That should make him satisfied. That should keep him content for so long that he can spend these next 50 years catering to his children.  
  
But it doesn’t.  
  
Come Valentine's Day where Phillipa and James give him red hearts and black crayon words, he can’t stop glancing at all the romance revolving around him. He’s suddenly too aware of the couples that pass by, suddenly too aware of how his children have stopped asking about their mother and now just stare forlornly at the full house families that plague the streets.  
  
To say that it breaks his heart to see his children like that is putting it lightly. He feels like he’s falling apart and there’s no way to piece him back together. He feels so utterly inadequate as a father; that no matter what he can do, no matter how hard he can try, he will never be able to fill that hole in their hearts because Mal is their mother, and will forever be their beloved mother. To think of even trying to replace her- it’s unfathomable, the idea, but.  
  
But maybe the idea isn’t to place a triangle into a square. Maybe it isn’t even about fulfilling the kids' want, but about Cobb wanting to fill the hole in his chest- not the Mal-shaped one, but the tiny hole beside it that’s been growing in size as he walks through life.  
  
It’s grown so much that it aches every time he wakes up in the morning to make the kids breakfast, until the time where he slips into the right side of the king size bed, curled up and all alone.  
  
-  
  
Cobb’s mobile phone rings, a generic shrill that he reserves for callers not listed under his contacts. He spares a second to recognise that he hardly has anyone on that list, before he picks it up.  
  
“Hello, Dominick speaking,” he says in between plating the toast and laying out the jam, butter and sugar.  
  
A small laugh tinkles through the speaker and Cobb almost drops everything at the sound. Thankfully, he manages to get it all on the table with the phone wedged firmly between his ear and shoulder. Once his hands are free, they make their way to the back of one of the chairs, gripping it tight, eyes closed.  
  
“So you’re going by Dominick again? That’s cute,” says the voice, clearly amused.  
  
“Arthur,” whispers Cobb, embarrassed at how relieved and reverent he sounds in the one word. It’s not like he hasn’t talked to Arthur before, they’ve kept in touch since the Inception job- but usually through one-sided emails and texts. Cobb never has Arthur’s contact details because he changes them too frequently to keep up, so it’s a surprise to hear his voice, to have a conversation with him like this.  
  
He coughs to clear his throat, to dispel the moment in which his tone lingers. “Yeah, I- Cobb was only-”  
  
“For business purposes, I know. Just like how I go just by Arthur. Silly, Dom, you think I don’t remember?”  
  
At the sound of Arthur calling him Dom, Cobb relaxes. The ‘silly’ part makes him smile slightly.  
  
“Daddy?” calls Phillipa, walking into the kitchen, looking mix-matched with her school skirt and pyjama top. “Can I have some OJ today?”  
  
“No milk?” asks Cobb, moving towards the fridge to grab the bottle of juice and the carton of milk.  
  
“No milk,” confirms Phillipa, taking a seat at the table.  
  
Cobb pours her a glass of orange juice and a glass of milk for James, who’s yet to come in. “Do you know where your brother is?”  
  
“He’s reading his dinosaur book again,” answers Phillipa, reaching for her juice. Cobb passes her a piece of toast, and pulls the fruit mix he made out of the fridge.  
  
“That Phillipa?” asks Arthur and Cobb had almost forgotten he was on the line.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, getting over the shock. He sets the bowl somewhat off-centre, closer to where Phillipa is sitting and she grabs for a strawberry, munching on it in delight. “Did you- you wanna talk to her? I’m sure she misses you.”  
  
Arthur exhales, sounding like a storm on the phone. “Yeah, sure, if she wants. Ask her for me, would you?”  
  
“Phillipa, sweetheart, daddy has Arthur on the ph-”  
  
“Arthur!” shouts Phillipa, looking so excited, making grabby hands at Cobb.  
  
“Arthur?!” shouts James, barrelling down the hallway, dinosaur book in tow. “Where’s Arthur!”  
  
Cobb laughs at their antics and puts Arthur on speakerphone, placing the mobile on the table. He grabs James and plops him beside Phillipa, edging the glass of milk towards his hand.  
  
“Looks like they both want to talk to you, Arthur,” says Cobb and Arthur does that small laugh again.  
  
“Hey guys, hey, how are you two?”  
  
“Arthur, hi!” they chorus and Cobb hooks a hand onto the back of their chair, gripping it firmly as the kids scrabble to catch Arthur up on everything as they eat breakfast.  
  
-  
  
It's coming close to June when Cobb gets an email from Miles. It’s an invitation for the kids to come up to Paris for their holiday, and a slight extension towards him as well. It makes Cobb feel weary, the whole tip-toeing he has to do around Stephen, just because Marie never really did like him.  
  
But apart from that one problem, he thinks it’s a good idea to let the kids see their grandparents again. They’ve been such a big part of their lives that it feels cruel to cease all interactions. It’s also a good idea for them to get out of the country, broaden their horizons a bit and visit the place that Cobb truly calls home. Besides, it might be a good idea for _him_ to go back.  
  
Maybe he’ll find whatever it is he’s looking for.  
  
Maybe not, but either way, he misses the beautiful place.  
  
Cobb sends a reply in acceptance of the invitation and makes a note to book the flights and get the kids their passports.  
  
-  
  
Cobb is sitting on the couch with Phillipa squished by his side and James on the carpet, wrestling with his plush Pterodactyl, when his phone rings, vibrating in his pocket. He nudges Phillipa slightly and she’s not even paying attention because she’s so wrapped in Shrek arguing with Donkey. Fishing the phone out, he presses the accept button and holds it to his ear, “Hey, Dominick speaking.”  
  
A chuckle. “Ah, so Arthur was telling the truth. I guess I owe him 5 pounds for that.”  
  
“Eames?” asks Cobb, sitting up straight. Phillipa shoots him a glare and he puts a hand on her head, apologetic. He stands up and steps away to the kitchen where it’ll be quieter but he’ll still have the vantage of monitoring the kids.  
  
“The one and only, looks like you win 5 pounds! Or rather- don’t suppose you could spot us a 5 so we can pay Arthur?”  
  
Cobb laughs. “You don’t think I’m that daft, do you?”  
  
“Spoken like a true Englishman, speaking of which, I know it’s quite early but the anniversary of your mum…”  
  
The mention of it makes Cobb clench his eyes shut, turning away from the sunlight burning through the window. He sees the memories unravel before his eyes; the feel of linoleum floors, the smell of antiseptic and the burn of too much white.  
  
He doesn’t realise his breaths are laboured until he registers Eames’ voice and that he’s trying to calm Cobb down from the phone.  
  
“Easy there, Nick, calm- in and out, okay? It’s all right, it’s over, c’mon now,” murmurs Eames and Cobb sinks to the floor, back against one of the cupboard doors. He takes a deep breath and lets it all out. “That’s good, now back in. Then back out, yeah.”  
  
“Sorry,” mutters Cobb, readjusting the phone so that it sits more comfortably against his ear. He gets back up on shaky legs and glances into the living room; everything’s still in order.  
  
“Quite alright, mate,” chimes Eames, sounding remorseful, “I should’ve known not to mention it- or at least not over the phone where I can’t be there to calm you down physically.”  
  
Cobb’s mind flashes to pinned wrists and lips moving against the shell of his ears. It was nothing sexual then, just a quick and sure way for Eames to bring him back to Earth, but thinking on it now…  
  
“Yeah, I- I shouldn’t act like this every time someone mentions it.” He laughs, sounding self-deprecating, “You’d think after 20 years, I’d be over the fact that my mother died from a cancer she hid from her own son.” He laughs again, forehead meeting the solid timber kitchen bench top.  
  
“Hey, don’t talk like that, yeah? She loved you, Nick, that’s why she did what she did.”  
  
“And let me see her have a seizure in our own house? To follow her to the hospital- I can’t, Eames, I, the things-” He gets cut off when Eames growls, sounding livid.  
  
“You think I don’t know? Don’t you remember who was by your side the whole time? The one who called the ambulance as soon as she fell and you had to hold her?”  
  
Eames' voice is shaking and he’s panting into the phone like he’s forcing himself to stop talking, to not let the words spill out. Cobb chokes on an inhale and lifts his head to press a hand over his mouth, spreading his fingers to speak through them.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, eyebrows drawn together in grief, “I didn’t mean to, D-”  
  
“It’s alright,” says Eames, voice taking a sharp turn from distressed to peaceful. He talks as if he’s crooning into the phone, tone soothing Cobb’s fears, “She was your mother and you have every right, mate.”  
  
“She was yours too,” says Cobb with a small smile, remembering all the times Eames would appear at his front door, bruised and battered. His mother wouldn’t say a word and would wrap her arms around Eames, fingers going through his hair before leading him to sit by Cobb.  
  
“Yeah,” whispers Eames and Cobb almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and a smile blooms on his face. He stands up straight and stretches, fingertips reaching for the ceiling.  
  
“When it’s time, we’ll go visit her together. I bet she misses us,” suggests Cobb, striding back into the living room to press a kiss to Phillipa’s head and ruffle James’ hair.  
  
The slight snuffle Cobb hears is answer enough and they stay on the phone like that, in comforting silence.  
  
-  
  
The holidays finally come and Cobb has his hands full on the long flight to Paris with placating a frightened James, who just won’t sit in his chair and keeps trying to get into his lap, and an overjoyed Phillipa who keeps trying to run up and down the length of the plane. He ends up using his most adorable and helpless expression to get the stewardess to play with them, plying them with answers and distractions to make the flight slightly more pleasant.  
  
The long trek through luggage claim and customs makes the kids jittery with excitement, bursting with anticipation. When they see their grandparents they both leave his side, running at maximum speed to be enveloped in hugs.  
  
Cobb approaches Stephen and Marie warily, moving at a more sedate pace.  
  
“Stephen, Marie, it’s wonderful to see you again,” says Cobb and he embraces them both, feels the tension in Marie’s hold. He pulls back awkwardly and has to look away when Marie stares at him closely.  
  
Stephen clears his throat and holds Phillipa’s hand, “Ready to see our home, children? There’s plenty of milk and cookies for the both of you.”  
  
The kids beam wide, even when Marie shoots a frown at her husband. But Cobb can see the jest behind it and wonders when or if Marie will ever open her heart to him.  
  
Upon arriving at the house, Cobb’s heart swells at the sight. All the memories he’s had comes rushing back and it takes everything he has not to stumble to his knees at that.  
  
He makes it well enough to the door, budging the luggage into the guest room that’s still the same. His fingers trace the floral patterns of the bedcover to the sound of Phillipa and James laughing and munching on their sweets. He presses his palms into his eyes, as if the pain will make the storm inside his head go away.  
  
Shaking his head, he makes his way back out and into the kitchen, taking a seat and letting James climb onto his lap.  
  
“Thank you for the invitation,” says Cobb, reaching for a cookie and pressing it into James’ open palm.  
  
“You know you’re always welcome here, Dom,” says Stephen even when his wife doesn’t. Cobb smiles ruefully, ducking his head, ready to lose himself in his thoughts but they’re interrupted.  
  
“Daddy, have a cookie,” says Phillipa, standing up on her seat to shove one into his mouth.  
  
Cobb laughs around the mouthful, hands urging her to sit back down properly. He finishes it off and accepts the milk she passes him, grateful that as tiny as she is, she’s looking out for him.  
  
“Thanks, Pips, I feel better already!” he exclaims, wrapping his arms tight around James. “In fact, I think I might just gobble James up so I can be the strongest dad, ever.”  
  
They both giggle loudly, and Phillipa hops off her chair to wriggle her way into the hug as well.  
  
“Oh, I get two to eat? Om nom nom,” he says, burying his face in their hair and they laugh louder, twisting and turning in his arms, limbs flailing about helplessly. He’s laughing loudly himself and when he takes a moment to catch his breath, he notices Stephen and Marie watching him.  
  
He flushes under their gaze, but doesn’t loosen his grip on his children.  
  
-  
  
The next day, they’re awake with bright eyes. They have a sedate breakfast before Marie herds the children out into the world of Paris to meet with her friends.  
  
Stephen presses a spare key into his hand and gives him a slight hug before going off to the university.  
  
Cobb sits on the couch, eyes shut, grip tight around the key. He feels like the walls are closing in on him, and he shudders at the cold feeling. He stands up and makes for the door, only breathing right when it is shut behind him.  
  
He feels shaken to the core and makes a note that he has to get over the memories and the fear that follows. Maybe not today but. One day. Soon.  
  
With the key shoved deep into his pocket, Cobb starts walking, no particular destination in mind. His feet take him through the distance of Paris; visiting familiar places and letting him take in the architecture he once admired, the scenery he once loved and the atmosphere that he once was a part of.  
  
Stopping on the Pont des Arts and looking at the scene around him, he breathes easy for the first time.  
  
-  
  
Funnily enough though, as he is walking out of a café with a café au lait in hand, he bumps into a man.  
  
“Pardon,” he says in a French lilt and freezes when he sees who it is. “Eames?” he asks, baffled, and Eames looks just as surprised to see him.  
  
“Sugar,” starts Eames and Cobb punches his shoulder automatically. He stares horrified at his own hand, and looks up to meet Eames’ eyes. A second later, they’re laughing, stepping away from the café and standing at a discreet spot on the path.  
  
“That just- happened by itself,” explained Cobb, both hands now wrapped tight around his cup.  
  
“No, that was my fault. That just slipped out and- I haven’t called you that in ages. Not since…”  
  
Not since Cobb declared that he was going by Cobb and only Cobb.  
  
“Yeah,” says Cobb, taking a sip, “well, you can call me Dominick again but sugar is still…”  
  
Eames pinches his cheek. Cobb smacks it away but a smile lingers on his face. It’s always good to be around Eames.  
  
“But you’ll always be sweet to me, Nick-o. So tell us, what are you doing here in Paris? Don’t tell me you’ve been exiled from America again.”  
  
Or maybe not. Cobb shakes his head, pushing his anger from Eames’ jibe down. “No,” he says, exhaling, “I’m here on family business.”  
  
“Aren’t you always,” muses Eames, and he checks his watch. “Hey look, why don’t you take a walk with me?”  
  
Cobb stares at him, apprehensive. He blinks against the beam of Eames’ smile and wonders aloud, “And what’re you doing here in Paris, Eames?”  
  
Eames doesn’t answer, just dips his head in secret, and takes Cobb for a long walk.  
  
They go in circles and circles until Cobb isn’t sure where they are anymore, until Eames puts a hand on the small of his back and directs him to the door of a quaint little house that’s slightly rotting on the side but still appealing with its muted pastel colours.  
  
When they’re inside, Eames toeing off his brogues at the entrance, he catches familiar voices; voices of Arthur, Ariadne and Yusuf, and backtracks hastily. Eames catches him though; hand still pressed to his back, and pushes him forward.  
  
“ _Eames_ ,” he hisses, voice low, fighting against the pressure, “I can’t! Why did you,” he turns and slaps away Eames’ hand but Eames just grins and catches his wrist.  
  
What was meant to be a covert escape becomes a full-fledged grapple, Cobb coming within inches of grasping the door handle before Eames pulls him away again. They’re making such extreme noises that the others come looking for them, footsteps running towards their fight.  
  
They see Cobb again, for the first time in nine months, trapped against the wall, Eames pinning his hands down to either side of his hips. His face burns red and he sneers at Eames, who playfully pretends to take a bite of his nose.  
  
“Dom,” starts Arthur, pulling out of his state of shock and stepping forward, hand reaching out slightly, “what are you doing here?”  
  
Cobb doesn’t answer, he just struggles further against Eames, who rolls his eyes and sighs before letting go.  
  
“So feral,” he comments, tracing the red of the line on his jaw with a thumb, eyes glinting with amusement.  
  
Cobb pulls away from the wall, to rub at the lingering burn on his wrists, eyes on the skin so he doesn’t have to look at anyone. “I just bumped into him on the streets,” explains Cobb, “I’m here with the kids. Just visiting their grandparents.”  
  
“Your kids are with the professor?” exclaims Ariadne, looking delighted. Cobb raises his head to look at her and finds that she doesn’t look different at all. Though she has developed a more mature air around her, like she knows more than she is letting on, then Cobb thinks about how she’s here with Eames, Arthur and Yusuf and laughs at himself.  
  
Of course she knows more than she’s letting on.  
  
“It was nice to see you all,” he starts, pulling himself out of his thoughts and slipping his hands into his pockets, “but I really must-”  
  
“You look well,” says Arthur, stepping closer and Eames moves back to allow him the space. The move makes Cobb frown, sparking a curious thought that banishes when Arthur presses a touch to his forearm. It makes Cobb smile how Arthur says it all with no preamble. He’s always been slightly more direct and open towards Cobb than anyone else.  
  
“Yeah,” sighs Cobb, giving in to the interaction, leaning into the touch, “you too- you all do.”  
  
The four of them beam at him, innocent smiles painted on their faces like wolves in sheep’s clothing, and Cobb sighs again. “Yeah okay,” he says, fingers playing with the metal of the house keys, “you can meet my kids.”  
  
-  
  
Cobb calls Stephen and informs him about the situation, glad he didn’t interrupt during a lecture. While Stephen is content with Ariadne and Arthur again, he’s always had a slight aversion with Eames. Yusuf, he’s never met, but he’s heard of.  
  
When they get to the house, Marie looks less than happy with having strangers in her house, seated around her dinner table but Phillipa and James jump at the sight of Arthur’s familiar face, clambering all over him until they get comfortable on his lap.  
  
After they’ve quieted down, Phillipa spots Eames and practically flies across the table to wrap her arms around his neck.  
  
“Eamesy!” she calls, sounding absolutely overjoyed to see him.  
  
“Ah, so you do remember me then, eh, squirt?” teases Eames, good naturedly, as Phillipa buries her face into the crook of his neck.  
  
Cobb coughs into his hand to hide how overwhelmed he feels by the sight, and Arthur slips a hand onto the back of his neck in comfort.  
  
“Daddy,” whispers James, in a conspiring tone and Cobb has to shuffle his chair right next to Arthur’s so James can whisper properly into his ear, “who are they?” He waves his hand at Ariadne and Yusuf, who are peering wide-eyed at the kids.  
  
Cobb laughs and catches his hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “That’s Ariadne and Yusuf, Jay. They're good friends with daddy and Arthur and Eames.”  
  
James squints at Eames, but seems content enough not to ask about him with Phillipa still cuddling him.  
  
They seem hesitant in meeting Ariadne and Yusuf. Until Eames tells them that Yusuf is a brilliant scientist who knows how to make things explode and that Ariadne is super smart and loves to draw like their father. And that she makes the best chocolate chip muffins in the world.  
  
It takes _just_ that for the kids to be bothering them for attention, turning their adorable up to maximum in order to goad the pair into giving them what they want.  
  
Cobb watches in amusement as they group together, talking and laughing.  
  
Eames comes around, taking the vacant seat to his left.  
  
“It’s getting bigger now, isn’t it?” asks Eames and Arthur huffs a laugh in response.  
  
“What is?” asks Cobb, confused and Eames just scoots his chair closer, hand brushing the side of his hip.  
  
“Your family, of course,” answers Arthur, leaning in close until their shoulders touch, making Cobb’s skin crawl at the point of contact.  
  
-  
  
The team doesn’t stay for dinner, but they promise Phillipa and James that they’ll take them out for lunch tomorrow and show them the fun places. The kids bounce like rabbits in excitement, making everyone cross their hearts and hope to die.  
  
Cobb isn’t sure where they learnt this but he makes a note to teach them otherwise.  
  
He sees them out, keeping the front door partly shut. They say their goodbyes and see you laters but Cobb stops Arthur from walking far with a touch to his bicep.  
  
Arthur turns around with a curious expression and it makes Cobb shirk back a little, suddenly shy.  
  
“I hadn’t the time to ask, but,” he says, hesitating, but Arthur seems to still be able to read him.  
  
“Yeah,” confirms Arthur, glancing back at the group, “we’re on a job. Just a minor one, though.”  
  
“A minor one that needs a Chemist, Architect, Point man _and_ Forger?” he asks in disbelief.  
  
“Believe it or not, but we have other skills too,” says Arthur, seemingly amused. “For example Yusuf’s quite apt at making strategies and researching. Ariadne is sneaky enough for extraction, Eames makes good back up seeing as-”  
  
“And you build?” whispers Cobb, thinking about the dream-sharing world, and the joys of pure creation. He feels the itch in his mind for building whimsical buildings made of mirrors and black pearl, a gloss of high rises that reflects the sun’s light back towards it.  
  
He snaps himself out of it before Arthur can realise his thoughts, but he’s too late. Arthur’s expression is already calculating, eyebrows drawn together as if mulling over options.  
  
“Good night, Arthur,” he says in dismissal, hopefully quashing all of Arthur’s thoughts regarding him. He turns to walk back inside but Arthur’s fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging and pushing until he’s crowded against the front door.  
  
“I still miss your designs,” murmurs Arthur and Cobb can’t make out his face in the darkness. The confession is a bolt from the blue, and he hadn’t realised that there are others beside himself that miss his work.  
  
Cobb gets another surprise at the touch of Arthur’s lips against his, cool and sweet like sparkling wine. It doesn’t last long, three seconds maybe, and then Arthur is walking away from him.  
  
Cobb doesn’t call him back, doesn’t make him explain himself. Instead he turns and rushes back inside through the heavy beating of his heart.  
  
At night he can’t think of anything else, mind replaying the seconds until a headache forms behind his eyes, forcing him to close them. But even shutting them against the moonlight, fingers stroking through James’ hair, the memory won’t leave him alone.  
  
-  
  
The next day the team arrives to fulfil their promise. Phillipa and James are ready to go, dressed in their brightest colours and Cobb allows them to be released into the wild.  
  
Eames and Arthur, though, have a problem with Cobb staying behind. They work together, hands pulling at his clothes, begging for a more appropriate dress and at the touch of Arthur’s hand on his bare hip, the memory from last night resurfaces.  
  
Embarrassed, he gives into their whims and demands to be left alone to change. After he’s done, and approved by both Arthur and Eames on his outfit, they go out.  
  
Phillipa and James have stars in their eyes from the beginning right until the end as Ariadne takes them to toy stores and candy stores and cake shops. Cobb can tell that she’s their favourite as she’s plied with affection but Yusuf isn’t doing so bad because Phillipa willingly holds his hand and points out the millefeuille aux fraises through the glass display.  
  
It’s unexpected, the excitement the two have for the kids, but it’s not unwelcome.  
  
Cobb jolts when Eames put an arm around the back of his chair, pressing a hand to his chest. “Hey,” he starts, lowering his hands to continue picking at his crème brulee.  
  
“Hey,” Eames says and leans into his personal space, a wicked grin on his face. Cobb pulls away, not really uncomfortable with Eames’ antic but rather slightly annoyed. What is uncomfortable is Arthur sliding into the vacant seat on his other side, laying down his plate on the table.  
  
“So,” says Arthur, picking up the silver fork to cut clean into his red velvet cake, “what do you think?”  
  
Cobb opens his mouth to question Arthur’s question but the fork is shoved rather unceremoniously into his mouth, cream cheese icing smearing his lips.  
  
“Looks good,” comments Eames as Cobb races to swallow, fingers coming up to wipe his mouth clean but Eames catches his hand, pressing it to the table. Cobb narrows his eyes at Eames, confused, and stays that way when Eames catches Cobb's jaw in between his index finger and thumb, tilting his head so he can lick at his lips. He kisses Cobb after, slipping his tongue right in, tasting like the coffee of his tiramisu.  
  
Cobb freezes right up when he realises what Eames is doing, and his mouth clamps shut against the intrusion. Eames pulls away, swearing. He sticks his tongue out, eyes crossing as he tries to look down at its bleeding tip.  
  
“What the fuck,” hisses Cobb, angry and confused, looking between Eames’ sulking face and Arthur’s laughing one.  
  
“I repeat,” says Arthur, tilting his head, “so what do you think?”  
  
Cobb furrows his eyebrows in thought, trying to make sense out of Arthur’s words. He thinks on the kiss from Arthur yesterday and then the kiss from Eames today and it clicks in his head.  
  
He stands up abruptly. The chair screeches against the polished floor loud enough to attract attention. “You think this is funny?” he bites out, grabbing a napkin and wiping at his mouth, “Making some contest in confusing me? Well, ha ha.” He turns to see Ariadne and Yusuf trying to distract his kids from his outburst, slanting annoyed looks at Cobb and he feels guilty for a moment before he remembers that they’re _his_ kids and that he has the right to be like this because Arthur and Eames is _fucking_ with him.  
  
Cobb doesn’t get to say any of this, doesn’t even get the chance to open his mouth, when Arthur grabs onto his wrist, just like yesterday night, albeit with more pressure that makes him pause, eyes glancing down then up.  
  
“I said, what do you think?” repeats Arthur, looking severe, and Cobb makes an attempt to yank his arm out of the hold. Arthur tightens his grip though, pulling Cobb down until he’s seated again.  
  
“Apologies,” says Eames, words sound slightly indistinct, “about Arthur. But you know what he’s like, Nick.” He frowns then, looking thoughtful. “Or don’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know what you want, or why you think it’s funny to mess with me but,” snaps Cobb, taking a second to watch their faces for a reaction, but there isn’t any. They continue to sit there, looking at him as if in avid attention. He inhales then exhales. “But stop it. Please.”  
  
The last word seems to make them crack, because Arthur’s hold loosens and then his fingers are spidering up Cobb’s arm to slip between the collar of his shirt, thumb pressing into skin below his collarbone.  
  
“We’re not messing with you,” says Eames, spooning Arthur’s cake into his mouth, “we’re courting you.”  
  
Cobb opens his mouth to respond to that, because what the hell? Eames says it so matter-of-factly, as if it isn’t a big deal, as if suddenly having two men, the very two who have been your _friends_ for a long while, vying for your attention is completely normal. But finds that he can’t.  
  
Because what _do_ you say to that?  
  
He furrows his eyebrows in thought, trying to make sense of it all until Arthur increases the pressure of his thumb, making his eyes flutter close.  
  
Eames lets out an amused laugh.  
  
“Arthur was right after all, you’re much more docile now that you’ve been partly fixed. I guess now _is_ the right time to pursue you.”  
  
“What are you,” starts Cobb, opening his eyes but Arthur pushes hard again and his mouth just falls shut.  
  
Eames lets loose another laugh, setting down his spoon. “You were so volatile before you got your kids back, but look at you now.” He leans in close to Cobb, eyes dark, mouth curved into a sinister smile. “You’d be good for us now, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Arthur takes his hand away and it’s like- Cobb can think again, he leans back and presses his lips together. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Remember when you did the whole shouting and pointing thing on the Inception job?” asks Arthur and Cobb frowns, trying to remember. “So obsessed about control, weren’t you; hot-tempered and unpredictable. Wouldn’t listen to a word I said, but when you had Eames against the car-”  
  
“You were so much more meek, Nick. If it was any other situation, I would’ve had you against the cab, damn the rest,” says Eames, “I guess that means you were a pushy bottom- not so much now, I guess.” He trails a hand down Cobb’s neck and Cobb squirms away from it, reaching up to push it away.  
  
“I don’t want to play your games,” he says, trying to maintain a façade of calm but his heart is racing, double time. Everything is rushing over him, like waves crashing violently against the shore and he can see her, see Mal cupping his face, stroking his hair, shouting at him, the wind whipping against his face, Mal telling him to move, to jump and he didn’t. He watched her drop instead, drop like a raindrop splattering against the ground, gone.  
  
“You always needed that much more of a push than a normal person,” says Arthur, looking slightly morose.  
  
“You’re crazy, you both are,” hisses Cobb and he stands more sensibly this time, making his way towards his kids. They whine and stomp their feet when he tells them it’s time to go home but he’s not in the mood for games, he’s adamant. He thanks Ariadne and Yusuf for looking after them, and wishes them a curt good-bye before ushering Philippa and James out into the open space of the streets.  
  
-  
  
Cobb doesn’t leave the house for the rest of the trip. He tells himself it’s because there’s not really anything else to do. He’s lived in Paris for ten years, there’s nothing he needs to see or visit. He’s content with drawing in the backyard, or browsing the internet in the living room.  
  
He even tries a hand in helping Marie, an attempt to try to get on her good side but his efforts go wasted.  
  
When the two weeks period comes to an end, Cobb is more than relieved even though the kids bawl at the airport, little fingers gripping tight to their grandparents. Cobb has to turn his head at the way his eyes water too, at the sight of Marie and Stephen not wanting to let go either.  
  
When he turns back to collect the sobbing pair, both Stephen _and_ Marie hug him. To have Marie, who for 10 years has never once accepted him, hold him like this; like he’s human, like he’s one of _hers_ \- Cobb can’t help the burn in his eyes, hugging her back.  
  
-  
  
Once he’s back in Los Angeles, Cobb restarts his routine with an added extra in the form of a babysitter by the name of Claire.  
  
Claire is fantastic with the kids and genuinely engages with them, which make the kids, in turn, love her to bits. They also like that Claire is a bit different, sporting red bangs with her blonde hair, and that she brings comic books, video games and pastry recipes. She reassures Cobb that they’re all educational; that comic books enhance a child’s imagination, help them read and learn morals in visuals, while video games challenges their thinking, improves their problem solving skills, as baking makes them feel useful and develops their team skills. She waves textbooks at Cobb as well, as if he wasn’t convinced already, happy to help the kids with their homework or give them a jump or two ahead of their class.  
  
Cobb compliments her on her hair, paying her a little extra when he catches the colour fading, and comments her on her glossy red boots that she probably saved up for. Claire always ducks her head and smiles wide.  
  
He’s taken to using those free nights to go to bars, nursing his beer until the four hours are up. Though there are times when women come up to him, trailing a hand across the width of his shoulders, and press their breasts to his arm. He allows them a kiss, a touch sometime, maybe even a shudder in the bathroom, but doesn’t ask anything for himself, just gives and gives until it’s time to go home and give some more.  
  
Tonight though, a man approaches him, discreet in his way. He strikes up a conversation first, that makes Cobb laugh, and he’s startled by the sound. After, the man takes him to the bathroom, hand on his hip and Cobb pushes him against the wall, dropping to his knees.  
  
He goes home with a bruised jaw, stains on his pants and a number in his pocket. Even though he had felt a spark with the man, he didn’t take anything from him and won’t even call. Because though it had felt right, it also felt wrong in a way that Cobb can’t explain.  
  
He comes home to a quiet house which isn’t really unusual, but when he calls out for Claire, she doesn’t answer back. Walking the length of the hallway, he doesn’t see her waiting at the kitchen counter doing her homework or taking advantage of his internet.  
  
What greets him though, is Arthur and Eames sitting on either side of his sofa, outline highlighted by the moonlight.  
  
“So,” says Arthur with a slight tilt of his head, “what do you think?”  
  
“Fuck off,” says Cobb, shrugging off his jacket and snarling at them. Because how dare they come into his home, unannounced and uninvited, and ask him that question? The one question he has been trying so hard not to think about- avoiding every thought that tries to distract him. “And get the fuck out of my house. How did you even get in?”  
  
“Oh, Phillipa and James were real happy to see us so they put in a few good words. It helped that we flashed her our matching rings and passports; she was absolutely thrilled to leave the house in charge of Mr. Arthur Cobb and Mr. Eames Cobb. She is a firm believer in love is all around, that child.”  
  
“What did you tell her?” snaps Cobb, horrified when Arthur and Eames hold up their left hand and wriggle their fingers, the light catching on the silver band present.  
  
“That I’m Mormon, and you both are my beautiful husbands,” says Arthur, holding out another ring, towards Cobb, in the palm of his right hand.  
  
“And she bought that?”  
  
“She had this sly smile on,” says Eames, “but basically quoted that Beatles’ song; all you need is love, love, love is all you need.”  
  
“I can’t believe you two, when did you both get so obnoxious?” At their raised eyebrow he shakes his head. “Look, we’re friends, partners at the very least, but I don’t work anymore. I just,” he pauses, not knowing how to express himself kindly and so doesn’t, “I just want a life with my kids, you have to understand. So why don’t you leave me be?”  
  
“Do you really want us to do that? Knowing what we can give you?” They both stand, walking towards Cobb like predators and Eames crowds his front while Arthur does the same from behind, slipping the ring into his hand before trapping the both of them against the small of his back. “We can attend to your every need, make you feel loved, make you lose control, make you lose every single thought in your head-”  
  
“Why all of a sudden though?” interrupts Cobb, taken back by his words and he takes a step back, jolting when he remembers that Arthur is behind him.  
  
Arthur lets go of his hands but keep them where they are with his body, arms going around his waist as Eames’ goes around his neck. He feels Arthur’s forehead press against his nape and Eames leans his forehead against Cobb’s.  
  
“Have you seen how you look lately? Like you’re so lost that you’re not really living? Have you noticed how Arthur and I have been looking at you these past years, how we always, _always_ forgive you- regardless.”  
  
“No,” says Cobb, willing himself not to look Eames in the eyes, staring at the bow of his lips instead, “no. I don’t know. Why would you-” he grasps for words that make sense, that can articulate what’s going on in his head; the utter confusion, the helplessness, the denial, the want, “I’m _nothing_ , I can’t. You’re both.”  
  
“I like Arthur, that’s true,” says Eames, lips curving into a smile, “He’s a nice bloke.”  
  
“And I like Eames,” says Arthur, voice slightly muffled, “He’s a… good man.”  
  
“And you’re together, in love or dating, friends with benefits, whatever,” deduces Cobb, feeling confused. He belatedly realises that he’s being rocked side to side, Eames and Arthur moving in harmony.  
  
“Not necessarily. Arthur really gets on my bad side- he’s full of condescension, never thinks about how brilliant I really am, hates my tattoos, doesn’t trust me.”  
  
“Eames is hard to know, he doesn’t have a true self _and_ he thinks only in visuals.”  
  
“Well, thank you for continuing to point out my flaws, Arthur,” deadpans Eames. “You see that? He’s so attentive to details, sealed shut.”  
  
“He thinks in words that revolve in full circles, doesn’t show what he feels and doesn’t bother filtering his words before he says them,” continues Arthur, burrowing closer to Cobb in a way that forces his shoulders to bend back further, fingers squashed, bicep muscles straining, but he doesn’t pull his hands out.  
  
“And me?” he whispers instead.  
  
“You’re the worst,” laughs Eames, “You’re selfish but brilliant, you think like an absolute nutcase, you tell the truth but not the whole truth.”  
  
“You’re broken and slightly awkward, skittish at times; beautifully imperfect,” finishes Arthur.  
  
“You’re not making any sense,” says Cobb, shaking his head slightly, “I’m just me. There’s nothing beautiful or attractive about my faults. I don’t deserve anything.”  
  
“Everyone makes mistakes, everyone is selfish, no one is better than the other, because we all have our faults regardless of all the good we do but we still deserve good things. We just have to believe we do.”  
  
Cobb can’t accept that, just can’t. The things he has done, the things that have come to fruition because he played a part, are all bad things, things that no one in their right mind would’ve done. He’s as flawed as they come and his only retribution is to make sure his children don’t turn out like him.  
  
No one should want what he is, _who_ he is. Not at the very least Arthur and Eames; the two men who have stuck by his side for as long as he can remember. It’s not like Cobb hasn’t thought of being with either one of them, especially on those nights where they’re working a job and they’re the only presence in the room when he’s hurting, when he’s _lonely_ , but unlike each other, Cobb doesn’t have a history with them that’s even the slightest bit romantic.  
  
He pulls away, sliding out from between them and they let him. He stands aside, freed hand now covering his mouth, thoughts still churning in a tornado.  
  
There’s also the question of why Arthur and Eames are _both_ after him when they’re already together. It doesn’t make sense. It sounds absolutely absurd.  
  
It sounds perfect.  
  
No, wait, scratch that. Cobb doesn’t need them, he doesn’t need anybody. He’s just in love with the idea of being loved but he had Mal and he has his kids. He’ll be fine. They might not be the one perfect happy family that Cobb wishes they could be, but they’re still a happy family regardless of numbers.  
  
“Why don’t we give you time to mull it over?” suggests Eames, lips pressed into a straight line.  
  
“We should’ve done that before,” says Arthur, frowning, “This is the last time we ever use one of your tactics, Eames.”  
  
“Hey, don’t fault my plan, it worked. Sort of.”  
  
“We shouldn’t have sprung this on you, Dom, we should’ve just- but seeing you again after so long, looking like- and you have-”  
  
“It’s selfish to want you after Mal, but it was hopeless to want you with her,” says Eames and it’s silent afterwards, awkward even.  
  
“We’ll let you think it through, but know we’re being honest here,” says Arthur, cutting into the quiet like a sharp knife. Cobb nods, speechless.  
  
Arthur and Eames let themselves out as Cobb stumbles into his bedroom, hands moving to unbutton his shirt and he jumps the sound of metal hitting his hardwood floor. He looks down to see the ring on the floor and realises that he’s the one who dropped it, finger uncurling around it to get at the buttons of his shirt.  
  
He crouches down to pick it up, and discovers an inscription on the inside. In your own time, it says in French and Cobb sets it down on the bedside table. He changes into night clothes and spends the night staring at the ring. He gives into his thoughts, thinking over everything that has happened until his head hurts.  
  
When he turns over onto the other side of the bed, he curls up, shivering.  
  
-  
  
For days after, Cobb finds himself thinking about it when he’s avoided it before. He keeps the ring inside his pocket, turning it around his thumb. He mulls over how the relationship would work; how does he even know if he wants Eames or Arthur or even both? He’s been working with them for so long, to even consider this… he’s always had Mal by his side and she was the only thing he could focus on when in his vicinity. It makes sense that he hadn’t noticed their attention to him then and until now he’s been wrought with guilt over the death to even think about anything but seeing his children.  
  
Cobb thinks about Eames first, because it’s easier to start with him. Cobb thinks about how they’ve known each other since their youth, when Cobb’s mother had taken him to London and kept him there. He remembers the snotty neighbour’s kid, reciting Disney’s Hercules lines so loudly that he stuck his head out and told him to shut up. It all started there. Then Eames had enrolled into his high school and they rolled about the grounds, spraying graffiti onto the walls and floors; Cobb would draw the background and Eames would fill it with people.  
  
But Cobb had left, at the end of school. He flew to Paris to study, and while they still contacted each other, it wasn’t the same. And when Eames finished school, he disappeared off the face of the Earth.  
  
It was only when he contacted his old art teacher that he found Eames had joined the British Army.  
  
He was bitter for years after that.  
  
He filled his time with studying, drawing and meeting with professors who were amazed at his work. He got to know Mal during that time and they became best friends.  
  
Arthur filtered in around the time Cobb was hired by the American Army to help in Project Somnacin. He was cold and quiet, professional all the way through and while he was brilliant with research and combat, he was also brilliant with Dream Share design. Cobb bargained away his pay for the employment of Arthur by his side, offering him a ride to any course at the University.  
  
It was when they were legal practitioners, hired to infiltrate the black market to find their mark, that they meet Eames. Eames hadn’t recognised Cobb at first, but he had recognised Arthur. He was snippy at Arthur, talked about him leaving the American Army and Arthur sniped back about Eames leaving the British Army.  
  
It wasn’t until Arthur had him pinned to the wall, gun to his throat, that Cobb stepped in. To say Eames was surprised was putting it lightly, to have Eames act like they hadn’t stopped talking for five years made Cobb mad. He had treated Eames formally, hinting that they’d like to meet his employer, but Eames didn’t budge.  
  
Money was what drove him, money was all he cared about, and so Cobb had to buy back his friendship. It felt cheap. And Eames didn’t stay long after.  
  
Though they would still see glimpses of Eames as they worked, slipping in and out of the black market. More often than not, Arthur would have to dip his hand into the dark pool and wave his magic wand, summoning other players to work with them for a percentage of the pay.  
  
Eames finally got dragged in when they locked down and needed a more precise forger. It was an awkward job, tension filling up the room that somehow dissipated the next morning, leaving Cobb confused. Arthur and Eames were no longer at each other’s throat and that made it easy to finish the job.  
  
It was Mal who coaxed him to make up with Eames, to pull a loyal player to his side. It took awhile before they became comfortable with each other, even though Cobb couldn’t believe his eyes at how much Eames had changed, how he filled out his clothes. A phase, just a phase, he told himself. Eames was like those high school friends you were never interested until they came back better looking but still the same.  
  
It took the Wedding, and Arthur standing as one of his groomsmen to see how good looking he was, how suits fitted him right and made him look more stern and sleek. Mal had laughed in his ear about his boy growing up finely and Cobb had shushed her with a kiss.  
  
After that, Arthur kept with the suits, bought piles of Giorgio Armani, Calvin Klein, Cerruti, Yves Saint Lauren, Burberry Prorsum, Dior Homme that filled his suitcases.  
  
Eames had a great appreciation for Arthur that way, but it was when Arthur started dressing Cobb up, had he started with the nickname ‘sugar’.  
  
Looking on it now, Cobb can see pieces of the past that should’ve made it known to him that Arthur and Eames meant more than they did in regards to him. And the times that maybe- Maybe he meant more than he did in regards to them. But he couldn’t- it was just a fancy, a little appreciation on his side because Mal was his world then.  
  
And if he can’t answer the question as to if he loves Arthur or Eames too or even just as much, well, he sure as hell can say he trusts them. With anything and everything.  
  
Cobb mulls it all over, again and again, from every perspective like he’s analysing the architectural structure of a model, looking at its compatibility with the support, the design, the logic, the stability. There are so many elements to consider though, things so unlike architecture that it makes him dizzy.  
  
It makes him shaky when he wakes up one morning, mind pure and hazy from sleep, to realise that there’s not really any angle that makes the whole getting together a bad idea. Besides the fact that he doesn’t love them. Not in the way they want. And maybe that’s okay, maybe-  
  
His mind starts working again, filling blank spaces with information that hurts his head and he banishes the thought, rolls out of bed.  
  
But the idea keeps plaguing him, and he finds himself thinking about it every time he’s not doing something, or just doing something routine. He’s thinking about it when he’s hanging the clothes up, or washing the dishes. He even catches himself lounging on the couch, contemplating, and once was late in picking up the kids because he was so lost in thought. He made it up to them with the promise of a movie at night, and from then on, keeps an alarm on his phone to remind him when to pick the up.  
  
He tells himself that if he feels this thing called love for them, it’s because they’re his _friends_ and if it feels more than that- well, Cobb always was in love with the idea of being in love.  
  
-  
  
Cobb is in the kitchen, doing nothing but sketching in the natural light when Arthur calls him.  
  
“Dominick speaking.”  
  
“Arthur calling.”  
  
Cobb rolls his eyes, swinging around on his stool. “Ha ha, Arthur, very original,” he says but his insides twist, a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach. He isn’t quite sure how to react, what he should say. Sure, it's been a little over a week since he had last seen them but that doesn’t mean he’s made a decision.  
  
He doesn’t think he ever will. The thought is daunting.  
  
He reaches into his pocket to touch the ring.  
  
“I like to be, every now and then,” says Arthur, not portraying any discomfort on his side, instead sounding amused, “So what are you doing? Wait. Let me guess; drawing, as usual. How has your day been so far?”  
  
“I am _not_ drawing,” argues Cobb, pushing the pencil and pad away and Arthur makes a disbelieving sound on his end of the line, “and my day has been fine, thank you. Sunny and so forth.”  
  
If Arthur can be casual about all this, then he can too.  
  
“Thinking about what to cook for dinner?”  
  
“Possibly.”  
  
“Nothing to occupy your time?” asks Arthur, sounding curious. “I know you’ve sent James to pre-school on a three day a week program, so you’re alone for a good three days out of the seven. What have you been doing? Got a job?”  
  
Cobb is surprised at how much Arthur knows by heart and boggles at it for a second before realising that it’s _Arthur_ and he will always be so attentive to details. “I’ve got a volunteering job teaching Maths on Tuesday and Thursday nights, from 4 to 8, and Claire looks after the kids during that time.”  
  
“But you don’t do anything besides that?’  
  
“No… I’ve pretty much been at home.”  
  
“Doing nothing,” says Arthur.  
  
“Doing nothing,” confirms Cobb.  
  
“Restless, huh,” mumbles Arthur and Cobb blinks.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing,” says Arthur, “maybe you need someone to… suggest something to you?”  
  
“Like what?” laughs Cobb.  
  
“Maybe you can be a be more active tutor,” says Arthur, “I know your children are home after school but you can plan things ahead during their time gone, get Claire to babysit while you go off and teach high school students or university student..”  
  
Cobb thinks about it, it wouldn’t be bad to turn his volunteer job into a real job. “Maybe.”  
  
“How about a university lecturer? It’s even better, you pick your times.”  
  
“I’ll think about it,” says Cobb.  
  
“Just do it,” says Arthur, with an air of finality that makes Cobb raise his brows. He doesn’t comment on it though, and instead asks about Arthur’s day in return.  
  
-  
  
Three days later, Cobb finds himself meeting with the dean of the Architecture and Design faculty, resume in hand. He’s nervous, leg bouncing up and down, the ring jostling against his keys in his pocket, and he thinks about Arthur. How if he was here, he’d put a hand on Cobb’s knee to stop it. He shakes his head to banish the thought and stands up when the dean opens the door, a tired smile on his face.  
  
They talk business, the interview going as smoothly as it can. Cobb is nervous about any criminal records being seen on his background check, but the dean doesn’t make mention of any of it, instead he goes through Cobb’s resume, impressed.  
  
“In addition to your qualifications and employment history, I’ve been contacted with many references for you, and each of them glowing,” says the dean and Cobb’s head snaps up, surprised.  
  
“You have?” he asks, definitely not squeaking, and the dean nods.  
  
“A Professor Miles has vouched for you, as well as many of your past employers- a Mr. Arthur James and a Mr. Daniel Philippe Eames for example.”  
  
Cobb narrows his eyes at the information but nods nonetheless, smile still in place.  
  
“I’d be happy to give you a class under our architecture history module if you’d like. We have a lecturer who’s temporarily filling the class, Mapping Pre-Modern Architecture. How do you feel about that?  
  
Pre-Modern Architecture? Everything before the 20th century? There's nothing Cobb loves better than the classics. He nods, enthusiastic.  
  
“That sounds perfect.”


	2. Chapter 2

Cobb now spends his days going over the course curriculum, looking over the students' opinions on the class and adding his own touch here and there. He doesn’t start until the spring semester, but he’s nervous anyway.  
  
It’s a Thursday morning and he’s writing week 6’s class presentation on American Colonial and Georgian architecture when his phone dances across the table’s surface. He picks it up without even looking at the screen. “Dominick Cobb speaking.”  
  
“Or should it be Professor Cobb?” purrs Eames over the line and Cobb freezes before leaning back in his chair, gripping his pen tightly.  
  
His eyes move to the corner of the desk where the ring is, sunlight reflecting off it.  
  
“Mr Daniel Philippe Eames,” he greets, butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach and he hears Eames huff loudly.  
  
“Oh, so this is what I get for being a smashing reference? A cold greeting? I’m hurt, Nick, _wounded_.”  
  
“You and Arthur need to do something besides meddle with my life,” says Cobb, putting down his pen, lips stretching into a small smile. “You’re starting to be very parental. It’s frightening.”  
  
“We are! Well, at least, I am. Been around the Middle East, you know, stirring up trouble and such. I’m back in London now,” says Eames, the last line spoken more softly.  
  
Cobb sits up straight, lips curving down. “It’s time, isn’t it?” he asks, feeling the butterflies burst into ashes that swirl in the pit of his stomach.  
  
“You don’t need to-“  
  
“I do, she’s my mother, Eames. Despite. Despite it all. Yeah, I’ll book for a week in London,” he drags his laptop close and pulls up an air flight site. “I can get Marie to come down, I guess, for the-”  
  
“Just call Arthur,” says Eames, matter-of-factly. “Or Ariadne, Yusuf even. It’s called abusing friendship.”  
  
Cobb blinks. Huh. But says, “I don’t know… Eames-”  
  
“For fuck- Dominick, if you don’t call Arthur, I’ll call him myself. You know your kids love him, and that he’d be happy to look after them for the week.” Eames sounds so sure of himself that it makes Cobb’s curiosity pique. Do they actually care for him that much that they would just drop everything they do to please him?  
  
He shakes the thought out of his head, and forces his mind to go back to the conversation. “How would you know?”  
  
“Look, just book a flight for the 24th through to the 1st, sugar, and I’ll see you at the airport.”  
  
Cobb doesn’t even argue against it, he just nods. When he remembers he’s on the phone, he chokes out, “Okay, yeah. I’ll call Arthur.”  
  
“You do that. Now look, I’ve gotta get going but I’ll see you in nine days.”  
  
-  
  
Cobb books the flight straight after the call but holds off on contacting Arthur until three days later. He doesn’t want to admit, but he’s nervous about it, and he doesn’t really know why. The worst Arthur can do is reject him, say no, but Eames had sounded so sure on the line.  
  
Making a decision, he sends a quick email to Eames, asking for Arthur’s most recent contact number.  
  
Two hours later, a number and its usage period are in his inbox.  
  
He toys with the idea of just calling Marie, but even that conversation would be painful.  
  
By the time the night is coming to a close and the kids are in bed, he calls Arthur. Two rings are all it takes for Arthur to pick up.  
  
“Hello?” He sounds worried.  
  
“Arthur, hey,” says Cobb, pen doodling a high rise apartment on the corner of his paper.  
  
“Are you alright?” asks Arthur, “Is something wrong?”  
  
“No, hey, calm down, it’s alright. Nothing’s wrong. I just. My mother’s anniversary.”  
  
“Oh,” breathes Arthur, voice small. “Yeah, Eames told me about her. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It was a long time ago,” says Cobb, shaking his head even though Arthur won’t be able to see him, “but I was thinking of visiting her grave with Eames. She was like a mother to him, too.”  
  
“And you want me to look after the kids,” construes Arthur, “I’d love to, Dom. You should know that.”  
  
Cobb smiles then, realising that his fears about Arthur rejecting him was unwarranted, that he’s known all along that, whether he wants Cobb or not, Arthur has always loved his kids. “Yeah… yeah, I do.”  
  
-  
  
Cobb flies out, much to the horror of his wailing kids, shouting for him not to leave them again and it makes him feel ashamed and guilty. Arthur does his best to calm them, holding one in each arm.  
  
Arthur looks hurt, seeing his kids like this and something clenches in Cobb’s chest.  
  
“Go,” says Arthur and Cobb presses a kiss to his kids’ heads before leaving, and as he lifts from James’ head, Arthur leans in to brush his lips against Cobb’s cheek.  
  
“Have a safe flight,” he says and Cobb’s cheeks burn as he makes his way toward his gate.  
  
-  
  
Eames greets him in London, the weather wet and dreary. He’s the only one holding an obnoxious bright blue umbrella and when Cobb looks at it, dismayed, he winks and says, “It brings out your eyes.”  
  
Cobb catches the silver around his finger and suddenly becomes too aware of the weight in his pocket. He ducks his head in response and punches Eames in the shoulder.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
-  
  
The first day is awkward. It’s like Eames can sense the discomfort radiating off Cobb and now that Cobb thinks about it, Eames probably can. It comes with his job description after all.  
  
They spend the day wallowing at opposite ends of the apartment, looking out cold windows and at grey skies.  
  
-  
  
The second day is better because Cobb gets so sick of the tension, the tip-toeing, that he breaks the ice.  
  
Eames is high-tailing it at the sight of Cobb watching TV in the living room, when Cobb rushes after him, grabbing a hold of his wrist. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs and Eames follows him to the couch. Cobb shoves him down, against an arm, and curls by his side, content at the warmth he gives off.  
  
-  
  
The third day is when they go to visit his mother’s grave, the rain inescapable. Cobb tries to discreetly curl his fists into Eames’ coat. He thinks Eames knows and is thankful when he doesn’t say anything.  
  
The grave itself isn’t anything fancy, bought with a small percentage of the money the house and everything in it sold for. After giving up everything, Cobb had flown to Paris to start a new life.  
  
But seeing it again makes his vision blurry and his throat hurt. Cobb closes his eyes against the ache and steps out from under the umbrella and crouches close.  
  
Eames doesn’t say anything but Cobb’s sure his own crying says everything.  
  
-  
  
The fourth day, Eames tries to keep him happy by taking him around to museums and art galleries.  
  
It doesn’t help.  
  
But the hot chocolate afterwards kinda does.  
  
-  
  
The fifth day, at night; Cobb tosses and turns in bed before he gets up and trudges to Eames’ room. The man is sleeping without a shirt on, tattoos prominent against his skin, thick curving black lines on his shoulder, and a city on the other. Cobb catches the letters d, o and m under the curve of his collarbone and flushes, remembering coming home from break to find a 17 year old Eames stained with art.  
  
He comes closer until he’s crawling over Eames, fingers brushing over the tattoo. It’s a faded blue right now, in need of a touch up.  
  
Eames stirs beneath him, hand catching his wrist in a tight hold, eyes snapping open. “Christ, Nick,” he breathes, letting go and looking up. “What’re you doing here?”  
  
Cobb thinks about the excuses he can make, but the hand resting on Eames’ chest clenches into a fist and he leans his head beside it. Eames’ skin is warm against his, heartbeat a soft throb. “I can’t sleep,” he says, “it's cold.”  
  
Eames doesn’t reply, instead he brushes his palms up Cobb’s arms, making his skin break out at the touch. Cobb shivers.  
  
“It’s okay,” murmurs Eames, hand now cupping his face and bringing it up, towards his. “Let me.”  
  
Cobb gives in to the warm of his mouth and gasps when Eames grinds up, eyes fluttering shut.  
  
-  
  
It’s the sixth day, the next morning and Cobb freaks the fuck out. Oh God, oh _shit_. He sits up in an empty bed and tries to discern where Eames is. He pulls his legs up to his chest and smacks his head against his knees, hoping it will somehow take him back in time.  
  
“Keep calm,” says Eames, coming into the room. He presses a bottle of water to Cobb’s neck and Cobb flinches at the cold. “Why are you panicking?”  
  
“Are you seriously _asking_ me why?” He looks up at Eames, eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t mean to- I hadn’t wanted to.”  
  
“Didn’t want to have sex with me, huh?” asks Eames, looking sad. He pulls the bottle away and sets it on the nightstand before stretching out onto the foot of the bed.  
  
“No!” says Cobb, floundering, his face burns at the sight of Eames sprawled naked before him. “Well, not exactly I- I don’t know. I hadn’t really considered. And the both of you-” He groans. “Arthur,” he says, “what about Arthur, what would he think?”  
  
Thinking about it all is too confusing, he wasn’t sure what to do before this predicament and now that he’s in it, he’s at a complete lost.  
  
Eames leans over to Cobb and puts a hand on his throat.  
  
Cobb looks down the length of his arm in question.  
  
“Do you need me to tell you what to do, Dominick? Help clear your thoughts a little?”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Cobb, reaching up to put a hand on Eames’ wrist. He isn’t sure what Eames is planning, but he wants to make sure he’d be able to at least _try_ and stop it if something is to happen.  
  
“No?” laughs Eames, fingers suddenly tightening on Cobb’s neck, putting little points of pressure into the skin that increases with every second. “So you’re telling me you didn’t become a University teacher because Arthur told you to? Didn’t book the flight here and call Arthur like I told you to? Tell me you don’t like to sit when I say sit. Tell me, Dominick, tell me.”  
  
Cobb whimpers under the pressure, nails biting into Eames’ wrist. “I didn’t. I didn’t do any of that because the both of you told me to. I did it because I wanted it, I. I wanted it. That’s why.”  
  
“Oh? And what do you want now? If I let you go, will you be good and stay? Or will you go and do what you _supposedly_ want?” His hand immediately lets go at his words, allowing Cobb to breathe again. He trails his fingers down the length of Cobb’s torso, tweaking a nipple on the way and Cobb jerks under the touch. “Stay,” murmurs Eames, pressing his hand onto Cobb’s hip, the other coaxing his legs to spread. “Stay and let me in.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Cobb’s mouth, eyes sad. “It’s your choice.”  
  
Cobb thinks about getting up and leaving, just packing all of the things that he has strewn all over Eames’ apartment and leave for a hotel. It’s not like he’s short on money and he only has a couple of days left until he flies back. His hand clenches into a fist and he thinks about burying it in Eames’ face, teach him a lesson for abusing their friendship, punishing him for leading Cobb into this, putting thoughts and possibilities into his head.  
  
He thinks about ending it all then and there, 24 years of friendship down the drain, telling Eames to never see him again, because he doesn’t need to see Eames again. He has a life now, one oriented around his kids and-  
  
It’s a lie, all a lie. (Because he doesn’t want that; he wants something more, something fulfilling, just _something_.)  
  
Cobb stops thinking and parts his thighs. Eames licks into his mouth for a kiss, hand creeping up to press a bruise onto his throat.  
  
-  
  
Cobb comes home, happy to see his kids. Arthur stands a distance away, smiling wide. After giving into the kids' whims and forfeiting gifts, he greets Arthur.  
  
“Hey,” he starts, fluffing up the wide collar of his trench coat, “thanks again for this.”  
  
“No problem,” says Arthur, raising an eyebrow, “why don’t you take off your coat? I’ve got the heater on.”  
  
Cobb nods and turns his back to hang up his coat. He avoids looking at Arthur, turned away from him to watch the kids enjoy their gifts. He hopes Arthur won’t notice- and if he does, won’t do anything. But nothing seems to go his way.  
  
“Dom,” says Arthur and he turns Cobb with a harsh tug that almost makes him topple. He can tell the exact moment Arthur gets a glimpse of his neck, because his eyes widen, brows furrowed. “Dom, what?” But before he can put a hand up to touch it, Cobb smacks it away.  
  
“It’s nothing,” he says, moving to turn but Arthur slants a quick look at the kids before dragging him into another room.  
  
“This isn’t nothing,” hisses Arthur, fingers deftly undoing the tie and buttons of his collar to reveal the whole bruise. He hears Arthur inhale sharply and flushes slightly under his gaze. He knows what Arthur will see is a yellowing bruise in the shape of Eames’ hand. Cobb closes his eyes against the memory of Eames fucking hard into him, pressing him into the mattress until he comes without a breath of air in his body.  
  
“That British bastard,” says Arthur, but it’s not in anger, rather in awe. Cobb opens his eyes to see Arthur staring hungrily at his neck, fingers tentatively tracing the mark. “I said he could get you first but this? This is…” He trails off, like he can’t think anymore, like there’s nothing greater than the stained skin before him.  
  
“I don’t understand,” says Cobb, taking a step back, “or rather, I don’t- I’m sorry, I guess. Or- you said he…?” He doesn’t know where to start first, how to make sense of all these conflicting thoughts in his head.  
  
But Arthur, reliable as ever, banishes them all with a smile and fits his hand to the bruise. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Dom. We told you that we wanted you but I guessed the both of us at once would be too much. As you’re more familiar with Eames, we thought it’d be best if you were to get with him first. After all that I’ve waited, I can wait a bit longer.” Arthur pulls his hand away and exhales, hand running through his hair. “We just want you to realise that we have what you need, that we want you and that you shouldn’t be afraid.”  
  
Cobb shakes his head. “I’m not afraid,” he says and he narrows his eyes at the amused smile Arthur gives him.  
  
-  
  
Arthur doesn’t leave straight away, and the kids don’t complain at all. He can see them beaming bright when Arthur follows in on the routine; helping with the dishes, the dinner, the shopping, the picking up and dropping off, the park, the play time and so forth.  
  
It boggles him to see the neighbours greet him casually and the parents of the kids’ friends making small talk with him. He sees their sly smiles and their knowing looks. He knows what they’re implying but doesn’t deny it, though he doesn’t go along with it either. He tries to stay on neutral grounds at best, but it’s hard to when he’s just as dispirited as the kids when Arthur leaves for ‘business’.  
  
It’s absolutely ridiculous.  
  
He sees what Arthur is doing, can see how he’s making a place for himself within Cobb’s life and Cobb thought they were done forcing their way into his life, that he was allowed to think on it now.  
  
Still.  
  
He can’t help but feel appreciated under the attention.  
  
Then he gets angry at himself for falling so neatly into their plans and just wishes he could stop thinking.  
  
The phone rings. And Cobb hesitates in answering it.  
  
“Dominick speaking,” he says, hushed, into the receiver and he hears a disgruntled sound.  
  
“That took a little longer than necessary, what’s the problem now?” says Eames, direct to the point.  
  
Cobb sits up straight, letting go of the ring he was playing with. The silver clinks to a stop when it rolls onto the mahogany table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I was just a little busy when you called.” He fingers the curling edge of the large drawing pad in front of him, blocked in with doodles of different types of buildings; the panopticon, Chaoyangmen Soho, the Guggenheim Bilbao.  
  
“You see, _that_? That is a lie. The peculiar thing about you, Dominick, is that you’re quick to think of a fitting lie to explain your situation. To any other it sounds fully believable and flawless.”  
  
“Let me guess, to you it sounds fake and so forth,” drawls Cobb, annoyed.  
  
“Not entirely,” says Eames and Cobb can almost hear the shrug he makes. “it’s just that when you’re truly in a situation, you tend to be flustered about it. If the nature of your lie _were_ true, then you’d respond in a way like; there’s no problem, Eames, I was just- y’know, doodling again, in all your American vernacular that hasn’t disappeared even though I was sure I had beaten them out of you during our childhood together.”  
  
“Ever the Forger,” remarks Cobb, annoyed at how perceptive Eames always is.  
  
“Don’t be like that,” whines Eames, and if they were talking face to face, his eyes would be wide, glistening almost, “I just wanted to know what’s wrong.”  
  
Cobb wipes a hand down his face, doing his best not to sigh. “Nothing’s wrong, and there’s no problem. You’re just being paranoid, as usual.”  
  
“Oh, is that why Arthur called me to tell me he’s worried that you’re rejecting his presence in the house?”  
  
Cobb’s jaw drop, baffled at how perfectly the nail was hit on the head. “I-What? I’m _not_!”  
  
“Oh, so you’re aware of that problem?” asks Eames, still using that higher pitched voice in that annoying nonchalant tone.  
  
“It’s not- I know what he’s trying to do. What the both of you are trying to do”, says Cobb and Eames hums tunelessly at him.  
  
“Hate to break it to you, sugar, but you’re imagining all that. _You_ haven’t told Arthur to leave, _you_ are the one clinging on to him. Tell me, who’s been warming your bed?”  
  
Cobb’s face flushes under the accusation and the question. There’s no pointing denying anything if Arthur has already told Eames everything.  
  
Especially the part where Cobb had shown up at the guest room’s door in the middle of the night, to watch Arthur sleep and the way the moonlight highlighted the skin of his face, licking at the skin of his neck, his arm. It’s always strange to see Arthur out of his formal clothes and so casual, in his night clothes. From there, Cobb could see how much his collarbones protrude and he didn’t realise he’d made a sound (from what! From wanting Arthur, from the way he seemed to fill the bed with his presence, the way it seemed so _warm_ in the space he made) until Arthur turned in his sleep, eyes slitting open.  
  
“Dom?” he’d asked, bringing a hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes. “What time is- what are you doing here?”  
  
Cobb shook his head, embarrassed. “Nothing, I just- I’m going back to bed now.” He turned and exited to the bedroom, fitting himself into the indentation he made on the bed. Apparently, he only ever lies in the one spot, never moving. Maybe it’s because even in his sleep, he knows that there isn’t anybody else in the bed to warm up to.  
  
A minute later, his door opened and feet shuffled across the floor. Cobb didn’t even open his eyes to see who it was. He knew. He curled up even tighter when Arthur slid in behind him.  
  
“Christ,” muttered Arthur, “have you been sleeping like this, Dom?” He’d put a hand on the curve of Cobb’s back and pushed. “Straighten out a bit; it’s not good if you’re trying to fold into yourself.”  
  
Cobb made a sound, flinching at the touches but Arthur coaxed him out of the position and into a straight one. He kept Cobb that way by slotting right behind him, as if supporting him, legs tangled with his.  
  
“That’s better isn’t it?” asked Arthur, nuzzling his neck and Cobb had flushed. From then on, he’s never been cold at night.  
  
“I,” starts Cobb but Eames laughs.  
  
“Making up a lie again? Didn’t that already fail? Listen, sugar, I know you’re feeling out of sorts and I know I should give you something to do, so here it is; go and have a nice romp with Arthur and you’ll both be a lot better off.”  
  
Cobb is scandalised by the suggestion and makes it known. Eames laughs even harder.  
“Such a pure affront you put on, but when you’re beneath me-”  
  
“That’s different!” shouts Cobb, and Eames winces in his ear. “We’re different. I. how long have we known each other now? Twenty something years?”  
  
“Twenty four and a bit,” says Eames, sounding nostalgic.  
  
“And you’ve always been there for me, Eames. You’ve seen my bad and good. And it’s- it’s easier to fall apart beneath you,” whispers Cobb and he hears Eames sigh softly.  
  
“Arthur’s been by your side for almost twelve years, Nick, isn’t it time to let him in?”  
  
“But-”  
  
“Though we’ve know each other for twenty four years, how many times have you seen or heard from me in that period? But I’ve bet that Arthur has always been with you, through thick and thin. He ought’ve been your best man.”  
  
“Eames,” chokes Cobb, hurt.  
  
“Sorry,” breathes Eames, “I got carried away. But, you should- do what I say. Or think about why you fell into bed with me. And why you won’t do the same with Arthur, he loves you too you know.”  
  
Cobb sits up straight at those words. “L- love? What, _Eames_ ," but Eames hangs up and Cobb is left talking to a dial tone.  
  
-  
  
When Arthur slides in behind Cobb, arms around his waist, Cobb turns in them and kisses him.  
  
It perplexes Arthur, “What, Dom,” he says, putting a hand on his chest. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Kissing you, I thought that was obvious,” says Cobb and moves in again. But Arthur stops him.  
  
“I _know_ what you’re doing, I mean- why? I thought you?”  
  
“Let’s say I had a talk with Eames,” says Cobb, not divulging any more information and he kisses Arthur’s slack mouth, nipping at his jaw and down his throat. Arthur’s hand comes up to his hair and pulls, _hard_.  
  
Cobb winces and follows the force of Arthur pulling him off.  
  
“Did Eames _tell_ you to do this?” asks Arthur, looking absolutely livid, lips upturned into a slight snarl.  
  
“Yes but not. Not the way you think, I’m doing this because I _want_ to, partially because he told me- told me something, but not to do it. But. This is coming out all wrong,” says Cobb, huffing.  
  
“What did he tell you?” asks Arthur, tugging on Cobb’s hair lightly this time, before just petting his head.  
  
“He said- I don’t think he meant to but he said.” Cobb pauses and looks at Arthur, who looks at him with a serious expression. “He said you _love_ me too.”  
  
Arthur blinks at that, dumbfounded and raises an eyebrow. “Anything else?”  
  
Cobb shakes his head. “That’s it- he hung up after. I just- you both love me?”  
  
Arthur blinks at him, still looking dumbfounded, and says, “Yeah? For as long as- are you surprised by this fact? Or by the fact that it was _Eames_ who said it, because the latter I get. I’m surprised Eames said that too, but.”  
  
“You both love me,” says Cobb, clenching his hands into fists on Arthur’s wife beater, ducking his head. “That, that surprises me because. Why?”  
  
“Oh,” breathes Arthur, “ _oh_ ,” and he catches Cobb’s chin and brings his face up for a kiss. “Because it’s _you_ ,” he murmurs and Cobb shivers and lets Arthur roll him onto his back, strip him of his clothes.  
  
When Arthur is staring down at him, like he’s appreciating everything Cobb stands for, he throws an arm over his face in embarrassment. That makes Arthur chuckle, plucking it off to kiss him again.  
  
Cobb exposes everything to Arthur, and Arthur thanks him by sealing it all back in afterwards, with rings of bruises around Cobb’s wrists.  
  
-  
  
When Cobb wakes up, he’s met with Eames' sleeping face. Jesus Christ.  
  
“Jesus Christ!” he repeats loudly, scrabbling to sit up and Eames wakes up to his flailing, sitting up sleepily.  
  
Arthur stirs as well, tightening his arms around Cobb’s waist and mumbling a deep, “What the hell is it?” into his shoulder.  
  
“When did Eames get here?” asks Cobb, staring at Eames, trying to discern if he’s real or not. Eames scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck.  
  
“Last night, I don’t know,” slurs Arthur, “time s’it?”  
  
“Seven oh five, darling,” says Eames and it’s a low, rumbly noise that captures Cobb’s attention.  
  
“Shit it to hell,” swears Arthur, always sounding like a bad excuse for a sailor when he’s woken up unscheduled, “he got here about- two hours ago? Knocked on the door and everything. Or did he call?”  
  
“Okay I know _how_ he got here but _why_ is he here?”  
  
“Oh,” says Arthur, yawning, “I called him last night and told him about us- what we did,” he seems to wake up more, as if he’s suddenly processing what’s happening, the things he’s saying. “Oh, oh, Dom, I, you have to understand, I-”  
  
“He was so happy that he could cry,” says Eames, grinning, but it looks false and forced, “in fact I think he did.”  
  
“And so Eames rushed here,” snipes Arthur, with narrowed eyes. “He never could sleep alone anyway.”  
  
Eames winces at Arthur’s words and he turns to look at Cobb, who continues staring. “Look, I’ll just- go take Arthur’s bedroom or whatever,” he says, getting off the bed, looking more than uncomfortable. He’s standing up; ready to start walking when Cobb tries to make sense of the feeling that seems to be telling him to follow, to stop him. He shoots out of Arthur’s arms and halts Eames, staring wide-eyed at his grip on Eames’ bicep.  
  
“Um,” he starts and he ducks his head in embarrassment, “you don’t have to- I mean, for now? You’re already here, and it’s too damn early to think. It’s a Sunday, and.” He pulls and Eames follows easily like an eager puppy. Cobb scoots back into the middle of the bed and Arthur’s arms come around him again. He sees the way Eames looks at that, and tries to dispel Arthur’s action.  
  
“It’s okay,” says Eames, lying in front of Cobb, a hand gently palming the side of his face, “when you’re ready, hmm?” He slides his hand down Cobb’s arm, thumb gently tracing the marks around his wrist before removing his hand. He crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes.  
  
Cobb tries his best to relax in this situation, being sandwiched by these two, and surprisingly it isn’t hard. Maybe it’s because he’s warm and surrounded, safe and sound.  
  
Whatever the reason, it does the trick. He shifts his head forward so that the sun doesn’t shine onto his face, and eventually into the crook of Eames’ neck. He falls asleep like that, in the blinding white of light, unafraid.  
  
-  
  
Eames doesn’t really leave, well, he does go off on jobs more frequently than Arthur, but he also comes home all the same.  
  
After the first night, Eames had made true to his word and departed for Arthur’s room when it was time for bed. But every time Cobb opens his eyes before the alarm, Eames would be there; one hand settled on Cobb’s hip, fingers intertwined with Arthur’s, thumb pressing in the groove of his hip.  
  
Cobb doesn’t call him out on it, just lets Eames wake up before he does, lets him brush a light kiss on his forehead before easing out of the bed. Cobb feels bad for acting strange towards Eames, they _have_ been friends forever but Eames has never been with Cobb when he was with another.  
  
The things he shows Eames, he doesn’t know if he can show Arthur and vice versa.  
  
The kids don’t seem to be adverse to the idea of Eames being a fixture in their life as much as they weren’t adverse with Arthur sticking around a lot. Except while Phillipa would beg for a ride on Eames’ shoulders, giggling and squealing, James would look on with trepidation, watching his sister go up so high with a man who he can’t really remember.  
  
Arthur would always try to coax him; telling him Eames isn’t all that bad.  
  
And it isn’t like Eames doesn’t try to make nice but James always comes running to Cobb, burying his face in his knee. Eames gets this broken-hearted look on his face every time, but he hides it away in Arthur’s shoulder.  
  
Cobb’s at a complete lost as to why James is acting like this. He doesn’t know if he should interfere or let Eames try to solve it himself.  
  
But finally, there is one particularly awkward dinner where James insists on sitting on Cobb’s lap for dinner, refusing to eat anything not from Cobb’s spoon. Phillipa tries to get him to sit on his own by teasing him and Arthur tries to get him to move too, just so Cobb would have some time to eat, but James is adamant in his decision and makes a fuss. Cobb sighs and sets to feeding James, and delaying his dinner til later. Eames even tries makes an effort, but James blatantly ignores him and that troubles Eames so much that he dismisses himself from the table.  
  
Phillipa kicks up a rage then, wanting Eames to come back and James is shouting back. All Cobb wants to do is crack a wall in with his head.  
  
“Can you look after Phillippa?” asks Cobb, lifting James onto himself and Arthur nods while Phillipa yells that she can take care of herself. Cobb takes James back to his room and sets him on the floor, stern expression on his face.  
  
“What’s wrong, James?” he asks, “You’ve been very grumpy lately and you ignore Eames every time he talks to you. I don’t understand.”  
  
“I don’t like Eames,” cries James, face red, eyes wet, nose dripping.  
  
“But why? Did he do something bad?” coaxes Cobb, running a hand through James’ hair. James hiccups.  
  
“No, maybe,” breathes James, and then he launches himself back onto Cobb, arms going around his neck. He starts going into hysterics, talking really fast and incoherent and Cobb has to shush him, patting his back to get him to calm down.  
  
“What, James, you have to talk slower. Daddy can’t understand you if you talk too fast, now calm down, breathe and talk to daddy.”  
  
“Eames is going to take Arthur away! And then he’s going to take you away! And Phillippa away!” blurts James, fisting his shirt and Cobb is taken aback by the outburst.  
  
“What do you mean? Eames hasn’t taken anyone away,” says Cobb.  
  
“But he will! Phillipa loves him and Arthur loves him and you love him,” bawls James, going into hysterics again, and Cobb is so surprised he can’t even form words. He has no idea where James has gotten these notions but he suspects maybe a little too much TV may be the culprit.  
  
“Eames loves you, James,” says Cobb, “he loves _everyone_. He would never take anybody from anyone, and if he did, he wouldn’t take just one, he’d take _all_ of us, yeah? Because we’re a family. Daddy and Phillipa would never leave you alone.”  
  
“And Arthur?” hiccups James, rubbing the wetness out of his eyes and Cobb plucks a tissue from the bedside table to help him. “Arthur is family too?”  
  
Cobb licks his lips in contemplation, before nodding, “Yeah. Yeah. Arthur’s family too.” He takes a breath and glances at the door to make sure there’s no one there. “And so is Eames. You know, daddy and Eames have been friends for a _long_ time, since daddy was 13! You know how old daddy is now?”  
  
James shakes his head.  
  
“37, James, and that means daddy has known Eames for 24 years. That’s a big number, yeah? Way bigger than yours or Phillipa, like triple, no, _quadruple_! So maybe you can trust daddy when he says that Eames is family, and he will never take anyone away. We stick together.” Cobb hooks his pinkie with James and that makes him giggle wetly.  
  
“You promise daddy? You promise we all stay together and be family?”  
  
Cobb kisses James’ hair and pulls him onto his knee, rocking back and forth, “Yeah, promise, James. Daddy won’t lie to you.” He closes his eyes and buries his face into his son’s hair and realises his white lies are complete truths.  
  
-  
  
It’s the cold that wakes Cobb. It usually is. But it’s strange for him to wake from it now, because he’s usually always warm with either Arthur or Eames plastered to his side.  
  
When he wakes, neither are in the bed and it confuses him. He has a brief moment of panic, hands shaking as he considers whether it’s an induced dream for a second and then shakes his head to clear the thought. He’s left that doubt behind- he’s here, in this world, with his kids and that’s enough. There’s no time to doubt anything.  
  
Cobb gets up from the bed, slow with sleep, and checks the time.  
  
3\. 23.  
  
They went to bed five hours ago.  
  
He walks out and checks on the kids, their room adjacent to his. He tucks Phillipa back in and smoothes down James’ sheets. When he leaves, he keeps the door partially open thinking about how in ten years, they’ll be slamming the doors and locking him out.  
  
He wanders about the house, the living room, the kitchen, without seeing Eames and Arthur, and decides to check the guest bedroom that is situated on the other end of the hall to their bedrooms. He frowns when he sees moonlight filtered through the open door.  
  
Cobb usually makes it a general rule to keep all doors closed because he doesn’t want the kids to be able to just walk into rooms and mess around or even get hurt by being alone. He walks closer, reaching to close it but freezes at the door way when he catches Arthur and Eames on the bed.  
  
He hands clench at the sight, tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip. He doesn’t know what to do, because Arthur is rocking gently into Eames, back gleaming with sweat. Eames is talking beneath him, chanting something that Cobb doesn’t understand at first, but makes out as, “C’mon Arthur, show me, show me, show me, yeah. Show me how you fucked him, tell me about the noises he made, how he looked. C’mon Arthur.”  
  
It takes seeing Arthur holding Eames’ hands down, anchoring himself on his right leg to thrust smoothly, to discern that Arthur is fucking Eames like he did Cobb that one night. That Eames is talking about _him_ in his incoherent babble.  
  
His cheeks burn at that, and they burn even more when he realises that he’s reacting to it all, hardening in his sweats.  
  
Arthur makes a sound in the back of his throat and leans down, sharing a kiss with Eames that sounds slick and wet. “You want it like him?” murmurs Arthur, “Or do you want me to fuck you like you did him?” He gives a hard thrust, one that makes Eames muffle his groan. “Don’t think I don't remember what you told me- how you coaxed his legs open and fingered him until he begged for it, all the while holding his throat down, fuck,” Arthur frees one hand to put it on Eames’ throat and Eames responds with a guttural sound that knocks Cobb out of his reverie.  
  
He startles and backs away before quickly making his way back to the bedroom. It isn’t until he’s closed the door, sliding down against it, that he breathes a little easier.  
  
What the hell, he thinks. What the hell was that? How could they- do that in his house? Cobb shakes his head and scrubs at his face with his hands. If they wanted to have sex couldn’t they just leave for a hotel or something- why did they have to do it in his house, under his roof with the kids here- oh God the kids. Now Cobb’s really irritated, he-  
  
He fists his hands in the material of his sweats and looks down at the bulge of his erection. He drags his hand through his hair, not sure of what to do, he doesn’t want to admit that- that he’s turned on by the sight of Arthur and Eames naked, skin slicked with sweat, sharing intimate kisses while sharing intimate acts. He doesn’t want to admit that he had a brief moment where he wanted to be beneath Arthur or in between, to feel the both of them hold him, constrain him, all the while driving him crazy-  
  
Cobb rests his head back against the door and slides a hand into his pants, fingers stroking his length. He does his best not to think about anything in particular, not what he’s seen or his own thoughts, but it’s hard not to when every time he closes his eyes, they’re all he can see.  
  
Cobb squirms in his own grip, panting softly, hand increasing in speed. He gives in to his thoughts about what would happen if Arthur and Eames finished soon and come back to the room, opening the door up to catch Cobb touching himself. He flushes at the thought, ears keeping out for any sounds as he tries to finish fast.  
  
He thinks about Arthur and Eames catching his wrists and pinning his hands to his sides, telling him how wayward he is, bringing himself off without either of them there.  
  
Cobb shakes his head. No. He doesn’t need their approval to do this, he’s a grown man. He licks at his lips, teeth worrying the bottom as he shimmies his sweats low to the top of his thighs.  
  
His other hand joins him, caressing his balls before dipping the tip of his finger to his hole. The memory of Eames doing this to him flashes in his mind and he pulls his hand away as if it burns.  
  
He curses himself at that reaction, because what the hell, why is he so reluctant to do this to himself?  
  
Cobb gets onto his knees and spits into his hands and goes for it, panting louder now. He still keeps an ear out for Arthur and Eames, and the thought of them catching him floods into his mind again; the way Arthur would be stroking him, Eames fingering him, rumbling words into his shoulder.  
  
He comes with a soft cry, wetting his hand and clenching around his finger. He shudders hard and gives himself a second or five to catch his breath before he’s scrambling to pull his pants up, to wipe his hands clean.  
  
Tossing the tissues into the wastebasket, he turns to the door, hoping that they haven’t returned and crawls into bed, curling up again.  
  
He’s filled with regret now, in the aftermath of it all, a slow burn in the pit of his stomach. He buries his head into his knees, and tries not to think about it. How all that consumes his thoughts is of the two people that have been pursuing him. It’s stupid to- to _want_ them but not- and not to go after them, especially when they’ve made it clear they want him back.  
  
He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, why he’s so hesitant but it makes him dizzy, thinking about it all. He waits for a long time, wishing that they’d come back now but is disappointed, when he drops off to sleep, cold like before.  
  
-  
  
The morning after, he’s sleeping straight again, Arthur plastered against his back and Eames at his front. He blushes when he remembers last night, and hopes that they can’t tell what he did.  
  
He sits up, groggy and blames it on being awoken last night. Not having at least nine hours sleep disorientates Cobb, he’s used to this life and can no longer survive on minimal sleep.  
  
Eames stirs beside him, hand clenching over his. “What’s wrong?” he mumbles sleepily. “Why’re you up so early?”  
  
“It’s nothing,” says Cobb, trying to pull his hand away and he does so in a gesture of running his fingers through his hair. “I just woke up.”  
  
“Go back to sleep,” says Eames, “It’s still early and you look tired.” He pulls on Cobb’s hand and lays him down again. He nudges his forehead against Cobb’s and murmurs, “You’re a little warm, Arthur a bit too hot for you?”  
  
Cobb laughs, low and husky, and shakes his head. He closes his eyes against Eames’ stare, and eventually falls asleep again.  
  
-  
  
When he wakes up again, he’s alone once more. He curls in on himself, and moans low in his throat. He feels terrible; his body is aching and there’s a scratch at the back of his throat. He coughs to dispel it, but it doesn’t help.  
  
“Cobb,” says Arthur, putting a hand to his back, “time to get up,” and Cobb makes an acquiesce sound and hears Arthur leave. He tells himself five more minutes and falls asleep again.  
  
-  
  
The third time he wakes up, he sits up, eyes looking for the clock.  
  
“Calm down, it’s all done,” says Eames, sitting against the headboard, reading, “Arthur took the kids to school and is grocery shopping and paying off the gas bill. You just go back to bed.”  
  
“I can’t,” says Cobb, moving to get out. He ignores the aches and clears his throat, feeling the rumble rip at the soreness. “I’ve got things to do, I can’t stay in bed. Why didn’t you wake me up when I fell asleep?”  
  
“ _Nick_ ,” says Eames, sounding stern. “Get the bloody hell back into bed, you’re _sick_.”  
  
Cobb blinks at him and wonders what Eames is talking about. Sure, he feels bad but it’s just from not sleeping well late night, and sleeping irregularly now. No way can he be sick, he usually isn't.  
  
In the time that he’s thinking, Eames pulls him back onto the bed and tucks him back in, fingers dancing over his forehead.  
  
“How did I?” asks Cobb, trying to wrack his brain for a reason and Eames looks guilty at the question.  
  
“You must’ve gotten cold,” says Eames, offhandedly, and Cobb thinks to last night.  
  
He opens his mouth to say something, maybe get Eames to _spill_ but that gets him thinking to what he did and he says instead, “Could I get some tea?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Eames, putting his book to the side. “Earl Grey, love?”  
  
Cobb nods, head following after Eames’ departing hand and he almost falls off the bed.  
  
“Careful,” says Eames and he presses a kiss to Cobb’s forehead before leaving.  
  
Cobb curls back in bed, hand pressed to the kiss. It’s the first time Eames’ has done that while he’s awake.  
  
-  
  
When Arthur gets back he’s equipped with fruits, vegetables, chicken soup and medicine.  
  
Cobb curls back from the innocent looking boxes, and doesn’t make a sound when Arthur and Eames argue over dinner.  
  
“What are the kids going to eat if you’ve got all this for Nick?”  
  
“We’ll get them take out for today, I just- _Dom_ ,” says Arthur.  
  
“They can’t have take out, _healthy_ -”  
  
“It won’t be McDonalds or anything, but from a restaurant. It’ll still be healthy, just not made by us, okay. I- I’ll think about it later.” Arthur climbs onto the bed and holds a hand to Cobb’s forehead. “He’s gotten hotter. Pass me the- I don’t know which one it is, fever medication. And some bottled water.”  
  
“You’re overreacting,” says Cobb, pushing Arthur away. “It’s just a bit of a fake flu, you know, the ones that start like a cold but after a day it’s all good?”  
  
“Yeah, well, better safe than sorry,” says Arthur, settling on the edge of the bed, “Have Phil and Jay got their vaccination shots? I was thinking it’d be a good idea.”  
  
“I, I don’t think so. I.” Cobb frowns, the kids have yet to be sick in his care, and Marie hasn’t told him of any of her experiences with them.  
  
“Here we are,” says Eames, coming back in with the water and meds. Arthur takes it and passes it on to Cobb.  
  
“Take this and we’ll get you some chicken soup.”  
  
Cobb tries his best to smile, and nods. He pops the capsules out of their foil, two red ones, and slips them into his mouth, setting the box onto the nightstand. He’s uncapping the bottled water as Arthur and Eames walk out and takes a gulp of water, doing his best to swallow it down.  
  
-  
  
It’s the second day and Cobb still feels terrible. Both Arthur and Eames are running circles around Cobb like headless mother hens. It annoys him that they don’t let him do much of anything, even if his fever only spikes sporadically.  
  
He’s tired, he admits, but that doesn’t mean he should lie in bed doing nothing.  
  
But every time he sneaks off to do work, one of them would drag him back to bed. They also fret when he forgets to take his medication, setting an alarm at every four hour interval until Cobb threw the phone at the wall, cracking it open in rage.  
  
On the third day though, Eames has a job, one less guard to watch him. But Arthur seems more vigilant than ever, except he can’t keep an eye on Cobb when he’s out- taking the kids to school, grocery shopping or running other errands. That’s when Cobb hauls ass to the office to work.  
  
The next day, Arthur gets a call. Apparently he has to go save Eames’ ass.  
  
“This is bad timing, but don’t worry. I’ve got you someone.”  
  
“I’m _fine_ , Arthur,” groans Cobb, turning in bed, kicking the covers off cause it’s so fucking _hot_. “It’s the fourth day. I’m on the road to recovery.”  
  
“And that’s all good but _still_. I’m going to head to the airport now, and she’ll be here in a few hours. Go to sleep.”  
  
Cobb gets a kiss on the forehead and a frown. He waits until Arthur is rushing out the door, to fall over on his side and cough his lungs out.  
  
 _Ouch_.  
  
-  
  
Hours later, he wakes up to the sound of someone moving in the house. He thinks it’s Eames but remembers he’s off on a job. And then he remembers Arthur is out saving him.  
  
That means-  
  
Cobb can feel the panic start to rise in him but it’s immediately quelled when Ariadne pops into the doorway.  
  
“Sick, huh,” she says and Cobb blinks blearily at her.  
  
“Tell me you’re a hallucination.”  
  
“Don’t tell me they’ve hit you up with the hard drugs,” she says and he rolls his eyes.  
  
“What are you doing here, Ariadne? How did you get in?”  
  
Ariadne shrugs, coming in to sit tentatively on the edge. “Oh, I’m just on break, you know, before taking up my masters. And I thought, what’s the best way to spend it? Look after a sick, old man! And Arthur left the key under the welcome mat.”  
  
“Arthur made you, huh,” sniffles Cobb and Ariadne shrugs again.  
  
“The kids love me,” she says in way of an explanation.  
  
“You don’t know how to drive,” points out Cobb, feeling the creeping feeling of another cough up his throat, “how will you get them h-home? It’s cold out, I’ll drive.” He smothers his mouth with his hands, doing his best to stifle his cough, make it sound less booming and haggard than it really is.  
  
“Are you even all right to drive?” asks Ariadne, half off the bed as if she wants to stroke Cobb’s back, make it better, but doesn’t. She knows better.  
  
Cobb nods. “I’ve been sick for a few days now, I’m on the road to recovery.”  
  
“But that doesn’t mean you’re well.”  
  
“A parent is akin to a superhero,” grins Cobb, hoping he looks convincing through the pale of his face, the slight flush to his cheeks.  
  
Ariadne looks like she wants to say something, but she bites it back, nods.  
  
“I’ll wake you when it’s time- school ends at 3, right?”  
  
Cobb nods.  
  
“I’ll just make myself at home-” she starts, standing up and Cobb blurts out, “Don’t sleep in the guest room!” his face burning at the memory.  
  
Ariadne blinks. “Er, okay?”  
  
“Just- it might be- Eames is currently living in there, you see.”  
  
“I’m sure he won’t mind if I hunker down in his room for a few days.”  
  
“Change the sheets,” coaxes Cobb, coughing lightly into his fist, “don’t know what he’s been up to.”  
  
Ariadne crinkles her nose at that. “Alright, I did not want to think about Eames doing- oh my God, isn’t Arthur staying with you too? Okay, I do _not_ want to sleep in that room.”  
  
“The couch,” offers Cobb and Ariadne nods, shifting her weight.  
  
“Go to sleep and I’ll bring you some soup, then we’ll pick up the kids. I’m a mean cook.”  
  
“So is Arthur,” mumbles Cobb, eyes already heavy again and he squirms back into the pile of pillows behind him.  
  
Ariadne laughs.  
  
-  
  
True to her word, Ariadne wakes Cobb up around 2 in the afternoon. “Soup,” she says, placing the bowl on his bedside table. She waves something else in his face, “and medicine, yay!”  
  
“I’m overjoyed,” drones Cobb, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His whole body still aches, making him feel like he’s too old. His face feels hot, skin clammy, but he sits up right anyway, hands on his lap.  
  
“You don’t need me to feed you, right?”  
  
“I can do that by myself,” coughs Cobb, eyeing Ariadne wearily.  
  
“Oh good, it’s just that Arthur’s left a long list of instructions and I don’t know if I should follow it all to a T.”  
  
“It mentions spoon-feeding me?”  
  
Ariadne laughs, ducking her head. “Only if you refuse to eat,” she says, jokingly.  
  
Cobb doesn’t put it past Arthur to have written a mile long list of ways to cluck over him. He sighs and then coughs wetly, hacking into a quickly grabbed tissue.  
  
Ariadne winces. “We might need to get some decongestant for that.”  
  
“It’s fine,” says Cobb, “just that, lingering mucus or something. I’m getting better. If I need anything I’ll tell you.”  
  
“Alright,” says Ariadne, slanting Cobb a doubtful look before taking off.  
  
Cobb sighs and rolls his shoulder. He takes the bowl off the nightstand shakily, grateful that it’s not hot but warm enough that he can drink it all down, warming his throat. When he’s done, he curls back into the warmth of the bed, forgetting about the pills.  
  
-  
  
Driving onto the street, Cobb isn’t sure if he’s made the right choice but thankfully it’s a ten minute drive and he gets a parking spot before the streets get flooded with cars of other parents.  
  
“So how long have they’ve been living with you?” asks Ariadne, hands pressed to the window, keeping an eye out for the kids.  
  
“Hmm?” sniffles Cobb, trying not to react to the warmth blasting at him from the car heater as his body goes into another heat flush, “Oh, um.” He doesn’t know if he can blush right now, but he’s feeling it. “Awhile?”  
  
“Like a week awhile or weeks into months awhile?” she teases, not turning to look at him.  
  
“How about none of your business awhile,” deadpans Cobb and Ariadne laughs.  
  
“That doesn’t even make _sense_ , Cobb.”  
  
“Well, I’m _sick_ so you have to excuse me for not making sense.”  
  
“You’re impossible,” she says, shooting Cobb a sly look like she knows everything before turning back to the window.  
  
Cobb turns his head away and looks out the window for the kids. He jumps when Ariadne makes a happy sound, opening the door and jumping out. He watches her run the distance to the gate, gathering the bundled James into her arms and hugging Phillipa.  
  
He smiles to see them walking back, even though the cold wind has got him shivering. Damn conflicting temperatures.  
  
“Daddy!” the kids shout when Ariadne gets them into the car.  
  
“Hey guys,” croaks Cobb, pulling out of the spot and back onto the road, “how was school today?”  
  
“Good!” says Phillipa, and when he flicks his eyes to the rear view mirror, he sees her trying to flatten down her windblown hair. “How about you, dad? Eamesy said you’re sick!”  
  
Cobb coughs and nods, “Yeah, but I’m much better! And I have Ariadne here to help me because Arthur went to help Eames on his business.”  
  
“They’re always away,” says James and Cobb can hear the pout in his voice.  
  
“They’re working to buy you presents,” interjects Ariadne, craning over the seat. “Cause they love all of you very much.”  
  
He knows what Ariadne is implying even if she’s not shooting him a look and blushes, not saying a word as they get home.  
  
-  
  
Cobb lets Ariadne help around the house, but being free of his prison guards who wouldn’t take no for an answer, he’s able to do the things that he wants. He works constantly, trying to make up for lost time- it’s approaching December and the spring semester starts in the middle of January. He hasn’t even finished putting together the curriculum for it.  
  
And he thinks about Christmas, too.  
  
He’s thinking of getting everything together before the rush because that happened last year when he got back to the kids. He was so glad to have them around that he forgot about the tradition of taking care of the Christmas shopping, instead of just plying the kids every month with gifts.  
  
He received an email too, from Miles, forwarding a client proposal for his employment of a small architectural design for a hotel to be built in 2013. He wonders if he should do it, and thinks about how Arthur and Eames seems to be flashy with their money and sends back a response of interest.  
  
“Cobb,” calls Ariadne, knocking on the door and opening it. She’s giving him a look like she’s trying to scare him back to bed and he ignores it. She sighs. “Do you think we could go grocery shopping? We’re a bit low on vegetables and we’re out of bread. It won’t be long, just a bit.”  
  
Cobb nods and tells her to get the children dressed and groans when she closes the door. He takes deep breaths in and out, ignoring his fluctuating body temperature. He stands up and ignores the twinge of pain in his knees and his back as he gets to the door.  
  
-  
  
Cobb tries to get breakfast in order, but his coughing _hurts_ so much that he has to take a break, lean his pounding head against the cool of the stainless steel refrigerator, hand clutching at his chest, rubbing at his throat.  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
Cobb turns around to see Phillipa.  
  
“Hey, Pips,” he greets, ruffling her hair.  
  
“You okay, dad?” asks Phillipa, taking a seat at the table.  
  
“Fine, just tired. Daddy’s been working hard to become a teacher.”  
  
“Okay,” says Phillipa, looking doubtful, “can I have some scrambled eggs and toast today?”  
  
“Nothing else?”  
  
“Milk and bananas,” chirps Phillipa and Cobb nods. He tries to keep his coughing down as he patters about the kitchen, ignoring the aches in his joints, the way his eyes feel bruised and heavy.  
  
“Good morning Ariadne!” greets Phillipa.  
  
Cobb turns to see her looking blearily at him.  
  
“Morning Phillipa- Cobb, you’re up already? You should be in bed, I’ll do breakfast.”  
  
“I’m fine, Ariadne, I’ll just do this. What would you like?” He stifles his cough and Ariadne looks at him doubtfully.  
  
“I’ll help then. Just- eggs and toast, huh?”  
  
Cobb nods and tries not to feel thankful when she grabs the bread, popping them into the toaster. He doesn’t think he can move that much with the constant ache pulsing in his body.


End file.
